


Your Outside Heart

by CrumblingAsh



Series: open [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, BAMF Peggy Carter, BAMF Tony, Brian Banner's A+ Parenting, Canonical Child Abuse, Gen, Hurt Bruce, M/M, Parent Death, Protective Tony Stark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-11 21:08:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16860328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrumblingAsh/pseuds/CrumblingAsh
Summary: “You have to know how this looks to us, Bruce,” he thinks he hears someone somewhere sigh. "We find both your mother and your father, dead in your house, both brutally murdered. And then we find you, hours later, wandering a suburb miles away, covered in blood that isn’t yours. It isn’t hard to add two and two together. We could lock you up forlifejust on that evidence alone.”Tony comes back.





	Your Outside Heart

**Author's Note:**

> **prompt:** _I loved that teenager au! I think you perfectly captured how that situation feels and if you'd like to do a continuation, i'd love to read about when they see each other again_

* * *

 

His mother is dead.

 

One. Two. Three. Four.

 

The chair Bruce sits in is as cold as the bite of the handcuff that bitterly embraces his wrist.

 

One. Two. Three. Four.

 

There’s a detective snarling threats in his face, meant to confuse and frighten him – he doesn’t even feel the sprinkles of spittle the man’s proximity splatters on his face with each word. 

 

One. Two. Three. Four.

 

_(“You think I have to listen to you?!”)_

 

“You have to know how this looks to us, Bruce,” he thinks he hears someone somewhere sigh.

 

One. Two. Three. Four.

 

“We find both your mother and your father, dead in your house, both brutally murdered. And then we find you, hours later, wandering a suburb miles away, covered in blood that isn’t yours. It isn’t hard to add two and two together.”

 

_(“You think I have to listen to you?!”)_

 

One. Two. Three. Four.

 

He curls into himself as tightly as he possibly can, presses into the unwelcoming metal of the table they’ve tied him to, pulls on his restraint until the cuff is cutting into his skin. There’s a prickle of pain, nothing more, too easily pushed aside and forgotten by the constant echoing thuds of memory playing nonstop through his head.

 

“We could lock you up for _life_ just on that evidence alone.”

 

There are so many words, and no one is asking Bruce if his mother had cried as she had died.

 

No one is asking him if the sound of each wet, gasping breath she had struggled to take had stabbed him. They had; every one. She’d looked like a fish trying to breathe on land, her blood fanning out from under her head like spilled paint. A fish out of water, trying to breathe, hoping someone would throw it back in. Bruce’s mind feels a little fuzzy.

 

One. Two. Three. Four.

 

He’s supposed to graduate next month; his mother is supposed to be there, in the stands, cheering him on. She’d taken him with her when she’d gone shopping for a dress for the occasion, laughing and smiling the entire time. She’d wanted his opinion. Green, cotton and flowing and pretty on her. Yesterday? God, had it been yesterday?

 

_(“You listen to me!”)_

 

Thick, strong fingers grab his chin in an angry movement he doesn’t see before he feels it, digging heavily into the bruising wrapped around his jaw, forcing his head to tilt upright. His vision is hazy as it takes in beady, steely blue eyes a white mustache that bristles in an anger that’s probably apocalyptic, but means nothing to him now. His mother is dead.

 

“Seventeen? You’re old enough to forget about juvie, Banner. Do you know what happens to guys your age in prison? Do you know what your odds would be against criminals harder than you? Do you know-”

 

“Do you know what will happen to you if you don’t **_back the fuck off?_** ”

 

The grip on Bruce’s face is immediately gone, and with the contact goes his struggling focus. His head drops to the muted sounds of rapid-fire questions, the sound of shuffling clothing and vibrations of fists slamming against the table. Bruce doesn’t flinch, can barely hear the developing rage storm over the count growing louder in his head – One. Two. Three. Four. One. Two. Three. Four. One. Two. Three. Four. One. Two. Three. Four. One. Two. Three. Four.

 

Something gentle touches the back of his neck, above another bruise, tentative and unafraid.

 

Everything goes silent.

 

“Bruce?”

 

Calloused fingers brush up along his clammy skin, card lightly up through his hair, nails dragging just enough to offer some sort of sensation – a tether. It tugs at him carefully, coaxes him away from the fog inside of his mind.

 

“Hey, big guy. Hey, buddy. Look at me. Look at me, Bruce.”

 

One. Two. Three. Four.

 

Bruce’s head lands on the table with a painful thunk, but the fingers easily follow, and despite himself, despite the lullaby comfort of the haziness he’s swimming in, he turns just enough to see overwhelmingly familiar brown eyes, staring directly into his.

 

“Tony,” he whispers, like it’s a dream. The fingers – Tony’s fingers – tread softly through his hair again. “Tony?”

 

“Hi,” his friend whispers right back, the smile on his face seeming wrong. “It’s me, Bruce. I’m here. I’m gonna fix this – did you even think to get him some ice?” The snarled question isn’t aimed at him. “His face is fucking swollen, were you just going to leave him like this while you interrogated him?”

 

“The comfort of a double-murder suspect is not top priority-.”

 

“No, I wouldn’t think so, considering it would give you one less tool to use to intimidate him with-.”

 

A breath scratches up Bruce’s chest like a demon escaping from Hell, hot and desperate. One. Two. Three. Four. “Tony,” he gasps out, breath painting the table. The room falls silent again. “Tony, she’s dead. She’s dead, Tony, she’s dead. He … he killed her, why would he … he killed her, Tony. She’s _dead_ ****.”

 

Tony’s eyes are immediately back on him, the stroke of the fingers becoming heavier and intoxicating against his scalp. Another hand falls to his cuffed wrist, thumb rubbing soothing circles. “Shh. Don’t say anymore right now, big guy. These sharks want to hang you, let’s not give them the rope to do it, okay? Shh.”

 

But he can’t stop. “Four times.” One. Two. Three. Four. “He grabbed her hair … against the counter … four times, Tony, he was mad at _me_. She told him to leave me alone, to _stop_ , but he was mad at _me_ why did he hurt _her_?” He’s shaking and the table is wet. “I don’t understand, I’m graduating next month and she’s excited and you’re _here_ and not in Italy I don’t understand what happened.”

 

“ _Fuck_ , Bruce.” The warmth of a body he hasn’t felt in almost a year slithers between him and the table – Tony’s suddenly wrapped around him, pressing unintentionally against bruises that don’t hurt. A smaller part of Bruce, soft and thin like smoke, wants to relish in the contact of his best friend; he burrows his face into Tony’s shoulder, his free hand coming up automatically to snag the Captain America shield hanging from the other teen’s neck.

 

“Alright then, Banner, but what happened to your father? Who killed your fath-“

 

“That will be quite enough, gentlemen,” a commanding voice, heavily accented with feminine English that he knows but can’t remember, interrupts. “Mr. Banner has been released into my care, as decreed by these papers. If you would kindly remove his restraints, I will be taking a traumatized _minor_ somewhere where he can hopefully feel safe and secure enough to rest. Should he have anything further to say to you, it can, and _will_ , wait until that time.”

 

The buzz of anger erupts again, the chaos of it thrumming up through his shoes and inside of his body. “Four, Tony,” he insists for some reason. His fingers turn the Captain’s plastic-rubber shield around and around and don’t let it go. “Four times. One. Two. Three. Four. One. Two. Three. Four. One. Two. Three. Four.”

 

Tony’s hold tightens, and the noise in the room (in Bruce’s _head_ ) is too loud to hear the faint, swallowed whimper that accompanies it.

**Author's Note:**

> cross-posted on tumblr, circa 2015


End file.
